This poem is an admission of guilt.

I often feel the urge to reassure myself,
invariably,
that I am right,
and in doing so I cut short other's thoughts,
and that is thoughtless of me, despite meditation.

What does it mean to be right?

Does being right translate to superiority,
or perhaps inferiority,
in terms of creativity is there a truth,
the variety that cuts to the bone?

And what is truth?

I think the answer is two roads split,
diverging in increasingly dangerous directions,
for faith is the belief in the reality of absolutes,
and rationality is the flexibility to choose for yourself,
and you can only choose one,
for that is how it has always been.

Why is man so singular and yet so one dimensional?

I find in my own experience that I am wrong,
in all instances,
there are always things that I do not consider,
facets wasted on my youth,
and in hoping for credibility,
I find that silence is the best substitute for intelligence,
and that the belief in the absence of illusions,
is itself an illusion,
for I am at my core,
ignorant,
unwise,
tired,
uncouth,
and very angry.